Quantum Leap: The Virtual Seasons // The Eighth Season Archives

PROLOGUE

He felt as if he was being held over a chasm -- a silent void between the leaps and it was always peaceful there. It gave him time to think through everything that had occurred between the first leap up until this moment in time, even if all he could remember were bits and pieces of his past. Suddenly, though, the thoughts were yanked from him as he was pulled toward his next assignment.

As the tingling sensation decreased, he realized that he was in mid-step, walking in mire. His equilibrium was thrown off from the leap and his left foot slipped. He quickly put his right foot down, which threw him forward - landing flat bellied and face first in the mud with a graceful humph. Sam pushed himself out of the mire then parked his behind in the same muck.

A loud laugh came from just to the right and behind him. It was most definitely male and it seemed he was enjoying the sight more than he should. "Brilliant, Guy. Just absolutely brilliant. I'm sure that they'll run in fear with the sight of you now."

Lifting his hands, Sam shook them trying to rid them of some of the grime, then scraped at the mud that was covering his eyes and slapped it to the ground. He turned to see the man walking up to him. "Think it'll win awards?" He asked sarcastically as he flung more of the mud away from his face.

"Maybe for most inventive camouflage," the man answered, his grin grew as he offered his hand to Sam. "Here, grab hold, unless you like living in a hole."

Sam looked at his hands and saw the muck still on them. With his front and rear end covered in mud, there wasn’t a way to wipe them off. Sighing, he grasped the man's hand and began to heft himself up along with the five extra pounds of mud caked to him. The extra weight was enough to undermine both men’s equilibrium. Both men tried to compensate by pin-wheeling their arms, but the sudden movement did little to help them. Both fell into the mud -- the unknown man landing on his side and Sam landing this time on his back. The man chuckled slightly at the predicament. "Damn, Guy, with a brother like you, who needs enemies?"

Sam chuckled as he sat up once more, this time his back coated as well as his front. "Well, at least we'll have soft looking skin once this washes off," he said looking at the thick mud that was on his hand.

The man narrowed his eyes and glowered at him. "What do they teach you in that hoity-toity school down there? How to be a pansy?" He struggled to his feet, then brushed at the mud on his camouflage top and pants.

Sam mimicked the man, trying but not succeeding in getting the mud off. "I learned plenty. And no … they didn't teach me to be a pansy.” He felt himself slipping away as the person he leapt into took over the situation. "And watch it, George. I can sure kick your ass from here to the lodge.” As soon as it started, it was over. Sam blinked at the sensation. He never knew when that sensation would happen, but sometimes, it helped – odd or not.

‘Okay,’ Sam thought to himself. ‘I'm Guy. He's George. Well it's a start. Now if Albert will just show up and let me know what I'm here to do, then it can get done and I can get a bath and some food,’ Sam thought as he heard his stomach rumble.

George nodded with approval. "That's the spirit! Come on! We have a lot to do to prepare for the mission." He turned around and, after carefully getting out of the mire, started at a brisk march away from Sam. "What's takin' ya, slow poke? Move your lead-filled toes!" George shouted at Sam.

Sam quickly stood up and started after him. "It's not lead! It's mud!" Sam hollered back at him and began trudging after him across the unfamiliar terrain. "Hey … when's lunch, I'm starved," he said not really knowing if it was lunchtime or not. He had a watch on, but with all the mud, he couldn't tell what time it was.

George looked up at the sky, stopping for a moment. He seemed to be concentrating very hard, as if he were trying to see one of the neighboring planets just above the high treetop roof. "Can't tell. We're too far into the forest. Gotta get to the lodge to tell ya that one." He lowered his eyes to Sam. "Besides, it's good training. We may not be able to get three square meals a day if the enemy blocks us off from our supplies. In which case, we'd have to ration. Now, you tell me. How long do you think seven strong men are going to survive more than a week on three meals a day with limited supplies?"

Sam frowned. He didn't like the sound of this. Enemies? Missions? What? Were they missionaries? Revolutionaries? Or did he stumble upon something more than he had bargained on? He sniffed and felt mud go up his nose, which caused him to cough. He wiped at his nose, and then said, "Not very long.”

"Damn right, not very long," George pointed out firmly. "So we have to be prepared for any possibility. But if you're not up to this … well, then you can go on back to that pantywaist school of yours. You with me, little brother?"

Sam nodded at his words knowing that he was probably in this for the long haul until he leaped. But again, before he had a chance to reply, Guy came blaring through. He barreled up to George, getting into his personal space. "Let me get you straight on one thing here, George. I'm in this for money … nothing more. Don't piss me off!" Guy then pulled back, leaving Sam to fend for himself against the burly man he stood nose to nose with.

"A true patriot," George said with a bit of sarcasm. "But I guess that's what we're fighting for, eh? Your Constitutional right to be greedy? I'm telling you right now, if you side with those imperialistic Stalin wanna-bes, I'll kill you right here on the spot."

"That's a beautiful sentiment from a brother, isn't it?" Al stated sarcastically from just behind and to the right of Sam.

Sam stumbled back from the man as he heard Al's comment. He bent down examining his foot as if he had injured it in the fall. "Why would I want to side with them, George? You heard what I said," Sam said also throwing the question to Al at the same time. He finally stood and faced George squarely.

George chuckled at his words. "And you better mean it, little brother. Because this ain't no picnic we're going on. This is a war. It's us against them and it'll make you one hell of a rich man." He turned and started to march again. "You coming? I'm sure Ambrose has some stew cookin'."

Sam's stomach growled at the mention of food. He whimpered and divided a look between the man marching away and Al. "Uh … I've gotta … ya know…” he stammered for a moment hoping that George would understand.

Al puffed at his cigar, giving George the dirtiest, meanest look he could conjure up, as he waited for Sam to rid himself of the moron in the camouflage so that they could talk.

"Suit yourself!" George shouted back. "Just don't expect much left when you get to the lodge!”

"Save me some, dammit!" Sam hollered at him then blinked as Guy left again. This flipping back and forth between Guy was going to get old really quick if it was going to continue on throughout the leap. He shook his head slightly and turned to look at Al.

Al raised an eyebrow at him. "Gees, Sam, you must really be hungry to eat the slop Ambrose calls stew."

Sam took the backpack from his shoulders and dropped it to the ground. He plopped down on the ground and looked up at Al as he rubbed his eye with the back of his right hand. "Al, I don't like this. Guy's residual here is very strong. He keeps popping in when it's unexpected." Sam shook his head then rubbed his other eye with the back of his other hand. The mud was beginning to dry and he could feel it beginning to harden on his skin.

Al sighed slowly at his words. "Great," he said sarcastically. His statement softened a bit as he looked at his friend. "Well, try to keep Yankee Doodle Dandy from getting in the way too much." Folding his arms across his chest, he glanced down at his cigar then to Sam as he remarked offhandedly, "You know . . . mud baths are usually taken without the clothes on."

"Great. This is just peachy. I'm covered in mire and my best friend wants me to keep Yankee Doodle out of the way when I don’t know how, when or why he shows up in the first place." Sam eyed Al through slits. "And if I wanted a mud bath, which I didn't,” he iterated, “I would have at least gone to a spa to do it," he growled flustered. Knowing that his little rant wasn’t going to phase Al in the slightest, he crossed his hands over his muddied camouflage outfit and finally asked, "What am I here to do, Al? Who are these guys?”

Al's expression instantly became serious upon the question. "Bad news, Sam, that's what they are. And I'm being overly-vague on that point because my thoughts about these nozzles would have your ears ringing for a year." He started pacing as he puffed on his cigar.

Sam watched Al as he paced. He cocked his head to the side and motioned his hand in a circle fashion for Al to continue. "Yea … and?" he asked impatiently.

Al stopped and looked at Sam questioningly before realizing that he wasn't really giving his partner anything to work with. He dug into his trouser pockets and pulled out the handlink, promptly pushing buttons and hitting it with his palm to force information out of the small device.

"Your name is Guy Hamilton …" Al looked at the handlink oddly. "And your brother's name … I mean, Guy's brother's name is George Hamilton." He shook his head. "They may be nozzles but you have to feel a little sorry for them for being named after actors. George Hamilton?" He shook his head. "Who in his right mind would name someone after . . . ”

Sam looked at Al quizzically as well as in a confused manner. "Al . . . stop … Al!" Sam interrupted him.

"I don't need information on George Hamilton, whoever he is actor wise. I need information about this." He motioned between the woods to his left where George had disappeared and back to himself. "And if you're not going to give it to me, I might as well go get something to eat," Sam said as he stood up grabbing the backpack, irritated.

"Oh," Al said simply. "Sorry." He gave him a weak smile. "Okay, okay, calm down, will ya? I'll tell you what you need to know. Okay?"

Sam maintained his balance by fixating himself over his feet. He wasn't paying attention to Al. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath and slowly let it out. When he opened his eyes, he turned toward the woods and started into them, leaving Al behind him.

Al growled at Sam’s actions. Lifting the handlink, he centered himself on Sam and continued to float beside him. "Sam? Listen, I know you're hungry but you've never been rude."

"Admiral, I believe that Guy Hamilton's residual is in control of the situation at the moment," Ziggy informed him lightly.

Al growled lowly at the computer's diagnosis. "Terrific," he muttered. "Got any ideas?"

"I’ve been keeping a record of events happening in this leap already, Admiral. If this data continues, there is a seventy-eight percent chance that if Guy Hamilton continues to interfere, Dr. Beckett will not succeed."

"No shinola, Zig!" Al told the computer with a frown. He centered himself in front of Sam and, remained ahead of him, trying his best to get Sam’s attention. He waved his arms, yapped at him, then after a moment looked down at the information on the handlink. “Come on, Sam, you don't really want to kill twenty-seven ATF agents in cold blood, do you?" he almost shouted.

Sam's feet immediately stopped, but his forward momentum along with the extra weight on his back caused him to fall to the ground yet again. He landed on his hands and knees and shook his head. "I … I couldn't kill anyone," he said softly. "Not in cold blood, anyway." Looking up at Al, he frowned in confusion. "ATF?"

"Finally!" Al said, more of a prayer of thankfulness than anything. "Sam, you're really starting to scare me! You've got to control this guy. Yeah. The ATF, Sam, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms."

Sam winced as he slowly pulled himself up. "I'm tired of falling, Al." He arched his back causing it to pop in three different places at once, causing him to noticeably relax.

"Actually, that felt wonderful," Sam told him. He looked at his hands and began to rub at them. It hurt to put any pressure on his left hand, and he protectively put it against his chest as he looked at Al.

Al accepted the question, though he knew that Sam wasn't fine. He exhaled and shook his head. "Remember that comment about imperialism back there?” Sam nodded at his question. “Guess who the imperialists are?"

"Give the man a cigar. I’d give this to you if I weren’t a hologram," Al told him as he held out the cigar toward him.

"Great. This is just great. And he said that he'd kill me if I showed any empathy for the imperialists. Great."

A thought came to Sam as he looked at Al. "Al, he kept calling Guy’s school a pansy’s school. What school was Guy going to?"

"MIT," Al told him, looking into his partner's eyes. Sam's jaw dropped open in awe as Al continued. "Guy's studying to become a computer systems engineer. Apparently, big brother doesn't like government-funded schools. Or any schools for that matter. He thinks they brainwash the people into accepting things as they are."

Sam frowned. "Al," he began as his brain shifted gears. "What happens to Guy? Does he …" He left the sentence opened ended as a question.

Al shook his head. "No data." Al raised the handlink and pounded it again before information began to pour from it. "Two days from now, though, the Hamilton’s and their allies declare war on the United States government. They bomb the CIA building in Boston. It didn't do too much damage but three CIA agents were put in the hospital for eight months from first degree burns."

"When do the twenty-seven ATF Agents die?" Sam questioned not understanding where they came in.

Al took a breath, lowering the handlink. "Two days after that, having intelligence that there was an army of renegade revolutionaries hiding in the Appalachian mountains, the ATF Agents sent some men up to get them out. They were killed. The attack prompted Georgie Porgie to set another bomb in the middle of Annapolis … and that's when the rest of them died.” He rubbed his hand over his face, obviously upset by the memory.

Sam took in the information and leaned back against a tree. "Okay … so what do I have to do to stop it?" he asked hoping that Al would know the answer.

Al shook his head. "We don't know," he said quietly. "We think that maybe you have to keep the bomb in the CIA building from even being planted but Ziggy only gives that a thirty-four percent of preventing any bloodshed." He toyed with the handlink, wishing he could strangle more information from the computer.

The lodge was a rather large building with a steel roof and log cabin sides. Something about it bothered Sam. He wasn't sure exactly what it was. It was almost as if he could remember something about the lodge itself from Guy. The feeling that this lodge gave him was more along the creepy-crawlies, and he finally shivered from the thought that evaded him. Something had happened there, but he couldn't quite grasp it.

"Doesn't look like Grand Central Station for a revolution, does it?" Al questioned as he guided Sam toward the building.

"No, Al, but I don't like it. I don't like the feeling that I'm having. It's … it's almost like I've been here before. And it's not that warm fuzzy feeling, either." Sam shook his head and took the backpack from his shoulder as he started toward the lodge.

Al looked at him through narrow eyes. "Must be residual from Guy," he muttered as concern filled him for his friend.

The door to the lodge opened to reveal a tall, muscular man with a bushy moustache. He looked as if he could wrestle with a bear and not get a scratch in the process. He looked at Sam with a growing smile.

"So … how does it feel to be part of the real Americans, Guy?" he said with a friendly tone.

An odd grin came across Sam's face as he looked at the man. "Ambrose, it feels damn good." He quickly went up to the man and roughly hugged him. "God, what in the hell have you been doing? Eating steroids for meals?"

Ambrose laughed heartily at his words. "Nah, haven't had the chance to stock them up." He slapped Sam's back hard. "Come on in and grab some grub. Your brother nearly hogged it all but I saved you a good two servings. You know how I am. No one is going to tell me who I can let in my kitchen." He walked with Sam to the cabin door, then held it open for him.

Sam walked in the lodge, placing his backpack on the floor beside the door and headed toward the kitchen. "It's a damn good thing that you didn't eat my servings you asshole," Sam remarked toward George who was still sitting at the table eating. "You'd have to get Ambrose and Arnold both to hold me back then. I'm starved.”

Al walked beside him not liking how Sam was reacting at all. He was pounding on the handlink by the time he walked into the lodge trying to get information. "Ziggy! Up the juice or something. I don't care. We need Sam in charge here, not Guy."

George rolled his eyes. "Sure, whatever, little brother. But we all know who's in charge here." George raised his head and looked at him warily. "Well, you said you're starving so have at, already."

Sam looked at George incredulously. "Are you nuts? Ambrose didn't invite me in the kitchen yet. And I know that I don't want my butt kicked by him. I'm smarter than you think." He grinned lopsidedly at the other men and waved at them. "Jack, Harold, Arnold, Dave … hey, how you guys doing?"

The men echoed a hello back with wide grins and motioned Sam in and offered him a chair. Two of the men looked at each other then back at Sam with a nod. “Glad you’re here,” Jack piped up.

“Yeah, someone needed to have brains in this mess, didn’t they?” Harold asked as he came up and slapped Sam on the shoulder.

Before Sam could respond, Ambrose went toward the kitchen. "Whatcha need, boy? A card to RSVP? Get your butt in here!"

Sam didn't need any other calling from Ambrose. He quickly entered the kitchen and grabbed the bowl from the counter. "Food, Ambrose. I don't give a damn what kind … just give me food." The rumbling in his stomach was loud enough for Ambrose to hear.

"I can tell. You grew a bear in your belly," the burly man commented as he placed a large bowl of stew in front of him. "Help yourself to the biscuits, too."

Al circled the table, still worried about how Sam was acting. "Ziggy,” he said in a warning tone. "Come on! This isn't good! Give me something to get Sam back!"

Sam grabbed four biscuits and grinned at Ambrose. "You're a lifesaver, Am. You really are." He placed the biscuits in a mound on top of his stew and grabbed one more before going to the table to sit down. Even before his butt hit the chair, he had half of a biscuit in his mouth, eating hungrily.

Ambrose nodded with approval before starting the act of cleaning up the rest of the meal.

"Am," Sam said as he swallowed. "Leave them biscuits. I'll eat 'em." He stood up and headed back toward the swinging doors to the kitchen, and grabbed a beer from the refrigerator then headed back to the table to eat.

The handlink squawked in Al's hand. Ziggy indicated a few moments ago the mention of the ATF Agents had brought Sam back, and that he should try that again. Al nodded, figuring that it couldn't hurt. He came closer to Sam and lowered himself so that he was face to face with him. “Sam, listen to me. You're not Guy," Al emphasized, as he watched as he moved toward the kitchen. "You're not like these nozzles." He exhaled, watching him with concern. “You’re not a murderer!"

Sam's body was hunkered down over the plate, his elbows on the table, eating like he hadn't eaten in a week. He was in the middle of taking a drink of his beer as it suddenly spewed from his mouth.

George stood from the table, having finished his meal and turned to Sam a bit aggravated at his actions. "Ain't got the taste for a good beer anymore?" he said with a raised eyebrow. "Typical." He marched out of the dining room without waiting for an answer.

Sam shook his head slowly and straightened up, and then sat back in his chair looking up at Al with a befuddled and scared look on his face.

Al sighed with relief. "This is getting really scary, Sam. Guy had taken over again and I didn’t like what I saw."

Sam ran his hand through his hair, even though it was still caked with mud. He quickly looked around to see if anyone was in the room and saw Ambrose walk in from the kitchen.

Ambrose shook his head at Sam as he picked up a couple of empty beer mugs. "You Hamiltons," he commented, looking at him. "You don't even have the common decency to wash up for dinner." He pointed at Sam’s bowl. "If you get mud in your stew, don't blame me."

Sam looked down at himself and grinned. "Sorry, Ambrose. I … I guess I was hungry."

"Don't make a difference now," Ambrose told him, grabbing another empty beer mug. "Except I hate to think that you could be related to a wildebeest." He nodded his head toward the kitchen. "Finish that up and you can get seconds after you clean up.”

Sam nodded to Ambrose. "Okay. Thanks Ambrose. Hey, don't worry about the rest of the dishes. I'll get them, okay?" Sam said as he motioned to the rest of them lying on the table.

"Yeah, I know, you don't want anyone in your kitchen but I won't even put them up. Just wash them. All right?" Sam questioned him.

"Suit yourself," Ambrose said with a shrug and he carried his handful into the kitchen.

Sam continued to eat. Ten minutes later, he finally turned to Al. He knew that he had been watching him eating the entire time and getting impatient with him. "What?" he finally asked. "I'm hungry."

Al raised one eyebrow. "Just making sure Guy doesn't show up unexpectedly." He raised the handlink and hit it roughly. He didn't like this situation at all.

Sam looked at him oddly. He wasn't sure exactly what he was talking about. He didn't even feel the change over this time. He lightly shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about Al. Guy isn't here. I am. Have you had enough sleep?" he asked worried for his friend.

Al frowned at his words. "Plenty. With Jules breathing down my back, how can I not?" He focused on the handlink yet again. The sooner that Sam leaped, the happier he would be.

"I'm not so sure, Al. You look a little tired and flustered. Are you sure you’re okay?" He sat there and nibbled at his biscuit as he looked at Al.

Al sighed, then closed his eyes. He was beginning to get another one of those headaches but there was no way he was going to let Sam know. The time traveler had enough things to worry about than a simple headache.

"I'm fine, Sam. I'll be even finer when we get you away from these wackos," he said, opening his eyes and looking at him. He raised the handlink and punched in the exiting sequence. "I'm gonna go check with Ziggy. We're missing something here, like why a smart guy like Guy …"

"Exactly," Al told him firmly. "George is more of a crackpot than his namesake!" He took a step back through the door. "Just be careful, Sam. Promise me you won't do anything until we've figured out how to get you out of this situation."

"I'll do the best that I can, with the little information that I've acquired. Go on, Al. I'll be fine. I've winged it so many times before, why should this be any different?" He said as he looked down at his bowl, twirling the spoon so he could flick at the meat and potatoes in it. "I'm not going anywhere."

Sam bopped his head back and forth before he finally nodded to his statement. "Whatever," he said softly, frowning as he took another spoonful of stew.

Al raised an eyebrow, looking at his friend with concern before closing the Imaging Chamber door, leaving Sam in the past.

"Admiral, there are some significant items that you forgot to mention to Dr. Beckett that pertains to this leap," Ziggy cooed at him.

Al marched down the ramp toward the Control Room. "Like what he's there to do, I know." He glared at the blue sparkling sphere hanging down in the control room. "It would help if you actually gave me more info than the history that I already know by heart."

"I apologize, Admiral, but it is beyond my control. There is a problem with the binary information that was corrupted in the bombing. It has some security blocks that will take some time to uncover. I will get the information that you requested as soon as it comes available to me." Ziggy sounded almost upset with him.

St. John turned to Al as he came up to the Control Grid. "I've been monitoring the events that just occurred, Admiral. It seems that every time Dr. Beckett is ‘thrown to the curb’ so to speak, his body temperature drops a few degrees and his blood pressure comes up. From what Ziggy could decipher out, Guy doesn't want to be there as much as he is claiming to."

"There may be some psycho-analytical reasons behind this change. Dr. Beeks is performing some tests on Guy even as we speak, sir." St. John then turned back to the monitor, crawling underneath it to look at the circuitry.

Al nodded again at his words. He sighed. He was feeling extraordinarily tired, unusually so. The headache he had gotten in the Imaging Chamber had not left him. Taking a deep breath, he turned and was about to voice that he would be in his office when he saw Jules near the door.

Jules looked at the people in the room with a smile. Her smile faded as she looked at the Admiral. He looked miserable. She leaned against the wall with her shoulder and angled her head, crossing her arms over her chest. Her eyebrow rose lightly as she peered at him.

“You mean other than me pregnant enough to pop?” She grinned at him, then stated plainly, “The complex is as secure as it’s going to get, and my father should get some rest.”

Al couldn’t help but grin at his eldest daughter and he shook his head. “Rest is something that is a luxury at this complex, and I don’t have the time at the moment. I don’t like what’s going on with this leap, Jules. Guy is taking over much too often, and I . . . I just have a feeling . . . ” Al let the sentence trail off. He knew that she would know exactly what he was talking about. His gut feeling was something that he always went with.

She sighed softly at his response. “Yeah, I know how you get when you get a feeling. Anything I can help with?” She knew that it was a long shot, but when it came to her father, she would do anything to help him sleep occasionally.

Al didn’t know exactly how she could help, except get the congo beating midget out of his head. “Well, Jules, I don’t know if you can help or not,” he told her with a sigh. “But, thank you for the offer. I... I gotta get some data to tell Sam. He’s not very happy with what’s going on, either. In fact, I think that maybe if I talk to Guy that . . . ” Al stopped as he brought his hand up to his head. ‘Dammit, I wish he’d go away,’ he thought as he closed his eyes and squeezed them shut for a moment. But even as he made the movement, he knew that he shouldn’t have done it in front of Jules. He knew. He knew that he would open his eyes and see her looking disdainfully at him. “Don’t even start, Jules,” he told her softly. “I don’t have time for this. All right? I’m very busy.” He shook his head gently. ‘Why do I even try to stop her? She’s just going to say it anyway.’

Pushing herself away from the doorframe, she took a few steps toward her father, her hand supporting her back. “You’re not too busy to go into the Waiting Room when someone else can, so you’re not too busy to march yourself up to your quarters and get some sleep. Gees, dad, I’m pregnant, not blind, and I can tell you’ve got either a hangover or a stress headache and either of those options warrant that you take a nap.”

Al opened his eyes and looked at her for a brief moment. “Jules, you know that I have to do my job. A little headache is not going to make me stop doing just that. I’ve had them before, and, anyway, when did you become mom of all?” he asked her with a grin as he turned to start to go to the Waiting Room. “I’ve got to talk to Guy.”

Julianna hurried to catch up with him and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll talk to Guy. You get some rest. That’s an order, Admiral.”

“Jules, you can’t order me around.” He took her hand off of his shoulder. “Listen, I’ll go rest after I talk to Guy and report to Sam what in the heck is going on. Okay?” Knowing that he couldn’t worm his way out of the situation at hand, he decided that reasoning with her would have to work. A compromise. “It’s either that or nothing,” he said as he patted her hand then moved his hand to her stomach. “Anyway, you’re the one that needs rest. That’s my grandson in there.”

Jules folded her arms and looked at him for a long silent moment before sighing. “Dad,” she started, but when he gave her the look that said ‘listen to your father, child’, she stopped for a brief moment. “Just promise that you’ll rest right after you see Sam, please.”

“All right, Jules, I promise,” he told her softly. “Okay?” Seeing her nod and grin, he rubbed her stomach lightly then bent down to it. “Your mom is such a pain in the . . . ” he looked back up at Jules who looked at him warily. “... neck.”

Straightening up, he leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek then turned to go to the Waiting Room. ‘I’ve got to get Guy to stop butting in. If I don’t, we’re in big trouble. Big.’

Guy had been sitting in the bluish-white room with little to do other than reading ancient books when he heard the door open. Raising his head, he saw Al entering the room. He looked at the older man and saw that he didn’t look so well. When he had talked to him earlier, it was to answer odd questions that he couldn’t find the answers too. He glanced behind Al to see the lady standing in the hall. ‘An angel . . . a very gorgeous and very pregnant angel,’ he thought as he smiled at her. ‘Too bad. She’s probably married.’

Jules glanced in at Guy and smiled at him. “Try to help Sam, Guy. He needs it.”

Guy frowned not quite sure of what she meant. Even as Al approached him, he asked, “Who . . . who's the angel?”

Al glanced behind him to see Jules walk away and he grinned. “Actually, that’s my daughter. But, that’s not why I came in here, Guy. We need to talk.” Al approached the bed where Guy was sitting and leaned his hip against it. “Remember me telling you about Sam?” Seeing him nod, he continued on, “Well, you aren’t helping matters any by butting in. You keep fading in and out and we need you to stop or there will be lives lost.”

Guy frowned. He remembered the conversation from earlier about this whole ordeal was some kind of experiment involving himself and this guy named Sam, but it was hard for him to believe that he was messing things up. “What do you mean, I’m butting in? I’ve been here in this room for hours. I haven’t moved an inch because you people won’t let me.”

“Guy, I know that you haven’t moved from this room.” Al paused thinking about how he could explain it to him. “Okay, listen, do you ever feel like someone is thinking or talking through you, and that you’re just the one mouthing the words? That you’re not really saying it, but someone else is?” he asked, then thought about what he had just said. He raised his hands; flustered, and let them drop to his side. “Great. This is just great. Now, I’m nuts,” he muttered under his breath.

Guy turned his head and looked at him as he thought about what he had just said. “No, I don’t think that you’re nuts,” he told him quietly. “In fact that about explains what’s been happening with me,” he frowned. “Are you saying that this Sam guy . . . has control of my mind?” The idea of that was scary enough and way too Twilight Zone for him.

Al looked up with interest. ‘So, he has been feeling it too. Thank God,’ he thought miraculously. “No, Guy, he doesn’t have control of your mind or visa versa. Listen, what’s going on is that in certain situations, you take over, like when your brother is concerned. You tend to ‘appear’ when you get irritated at him. What we need you to do is just relax while you’re here, and don’t think about what’s happening back at home. Okay? Let Sam do the work. Not you.”

“Yeah, well, Sam doesn’t know George like I do. He’s . . . well, let’s just say that he isn’t the friendliest guy in the world.” Guy thought about something that Al had said before. “You said people were going to get hurt?”

Al took a deep breath and ran his tongue across the back of his teeth. “Well, they will if Sam doesn’t stop what your brother is planning. Yes. Guy, I’m not going to stand here and tell you that everything will be peachy. I mean, twenty-seven people died because of that bomb that your brother built . . . ”

“Bomb?!” Guy exclaimed as he stood up rapidly. “George made a bomb?! Twenty-seven people?!” He started to pace. “Oh my God! I knew he was crazy but, I didn’t think he was capable of . . . dammit!” All the memories of his youth seemed to crash down on him, causing him to find security in a corner of the room.

Al watched as Guy walked over to the corner and curled up into a ball, his face blank of expression but he could tell that he was thinking about everything he had just been told. Going over to him, he placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. When he finally looked up at him, he asked, “Will you at least try to let Sam do this?”

Guy swallowed tightly and forced himself to breathe before responding. “You . . . you don’t understand. George doesn’t like outsiders. He . . . barely tolerated me.” He closed his eyes tightly, wishing he could forget. “Hell, toleration is a kind word for our . . . relationship, if you can call it that. He has a cruel streak in him. As long as he gets his way, he’s fine. But, if he doesn’t get his way . . .” Guy quickly wiped at the tears that were slowly starting to roll down his cheek. “Damn, all those terrible things he did to me. I don’t want him hurting your friend like he hurt me.”

Al nodded understanding exactly what he was saying. ‘How can you stay out of the way when you don’t know how you got in the way in the beginning?’ he thought sadly. “Okay, kid, you’ll be okay. Everything will be okay. You gotta hope for the best here.” He patted his shoulder then started toward the door.

Sam was so drunk that he didn’t care about anything. He half-sat, half-slouched in one of the wicker chairs in the lounge of the lodge, a half-emptied bottle of beer being held by his fingertips. He was chuckling as if someone had just said the funniest thing in the world.

“Hey, Georgie Porgie, toss me another one, will ya?” he shouted out, forgetting that he hadn’t even finished the one already in his hand.

Although George was standing in front of the open door of the refrigerator, he screwed up his face. ‘I don’t remember turning black, nor do I remember being owned by Guy,’ he thought, annoyed. “Get your own damn beer! I ain’t your damn slave, boy! The last time I checked, I was pure white.”

“At least your ass is,” Ambrose chuckled as he leaned over and hit Sam on the arm. “And it just about blinded all of us. Make sure you keep your pants pulled up!”

The Imaging Chamber door slid up in the middle of the room, and when Al stepped into the middle of the lodge, he shook his head as he realized what he had walked into – a group of men getting completely and totally drunk. “Ah, gees.” He looked around disdainfully and shook his head. “Sam, we need to talk. Come on outside . . . okay?” He asked Sam, but Sam didn’t seem to hear him. He was too busy chuckling then downed the rest of the beer in his hand before he got up and started for the kitchen. “Sam?”

Sam half-sauntered, half-swayed into the kitchen and moved past George to get to the refrigerator. As he reached out to open the door, he changed directions and headed outside the side door of the lodge to go outside.

“Gotta leak,” Sam told him plainly. “Why? You wanna come with?” he taunted back at him before going through the door, down the stairs and out toward the woods. Stopping some distance away from the cabin, he didn’t even notice that Al had popped in beside him.

After Al relocated back on Sam, he looked back toward the cabin and saw that no one was following Sam out. At least that was a good sign. “Sam, Guy gave us something to work with. We need to get Ambrose on our side. Maybe if we get Ambrose . . . we can stop George from making that bomb.” Al stopped and looked at Sam for a moment and could tell that he wasn’t listening to him at all. “Sam? Did you hear me?” When he didn’t respond quickly, Al finally questioned him again, “Sam? Sam?”

“I hear you, Al. Can’t a guy have some privacy occasionally?” Finishing up what he had actually gone outside to do, he turned back to Al. “Now, what is it that you want?”

Al sighed. “Soooorrry,” he whined at Sam. “But you have to realize in the past couple of hours, you’ve been switching back and forth with Guy and I wasn’t sure who was here.” He rocked back on his heels and looked down at the handlink in his hand. “Listen. Guy told me that it would be in your best interest that you get Ambrose on your side. Once he’s there, then you can maybe talk Ambrose out of doing this, then he can talk George out of it.”

Al still wasn’t sure if Sam comprehended everything that he had just said or not. From what he could tell, Sam was swaying back and forth so badly that he probably didn’t even know what he was talking about. “Sam? Did you hear and understand me? Or am I just talking to air now?”

“I don’t know,” Sam slurred to him. “Actually, if you want to get technical, you always are talking to thin air.” Sam nodded at him. “And so do I. Techn'lly.”

“Great. Just great. Now he’s being logical,” Al murmured. “Logical and beer don’t mix, Sam, it’s an impossibility. If it was logical to get wooked off on the stuff and have a hellacious hangover the next day, don’t you think that I’d be doing it too?” Al shook his head and brought up his hand up to his head. “Damn congo drums . . . ” He muttered lightly about his headache as it started to become stronger.

Sam frowned as he watched him. “Seems to me that you already got a hangover. Who’s playing the congos?”

“Never mind, Sam. Just . . . just go inside and go to bed before you get sick all over the place. Okay? I’ll just come back in the morning and update you as I yell it into your brain,” Al said with annoyance. “Go.” Al watched as Sam took a few staggering steps. “Gees, Sam. This really isn’t like you.”

Sam stopped at his words, swaying a moment. “Well, maybe not. But if you had a brother like I do, you’d be drunk too.” He pointed at Al and frown at his own words. “Or is that if I had a brother like you do?” He shook his head and tried to clear it. He looked up at Al with obvious confusion on his face. “Whose brother do I have?”

‘This is going to be impossible. This leap is getting to me. I think that I just might go have a beer myself,’ Al thought to himself. “Listen Sam, don’t worry about it. Go to bed. You need to have plenty of rest for tomorrow so that you can try to talk to Ambrose and to Georgie Porgie in there. Okay?”

Sam nodded wildly at his words. “Dokie Hokie,” he told him and started back toward the lodge before turning again to look at Al as he heard the Imaging Chamber door open. “Al? You’s a good guy. Ya know that? And ya got a helluva set of shoes.” Sam turned and staggered toward the cabin again, wishing the stairs would stay in one place long enough for him to climb them.

Al shook his head and placed his hand on his cheek as he listened to Sam. Watching him, he said lightly, “Man is he in for it tomorrow.” He stepped back through the rectangle of light. “I don’t envy him at all.”

Coming out of the Imaging Chamber, Al looked up to see Jules walking through the Control Room toward him. He didn’t even get a word out before she grabbed the handlink from him, and took it back to it’s resting place on Ziggy’s console. She walked back over to him and grabbed his hand. Al knew that he wasn’t going to win in this battle with his daughter so he just smiled at her and enjoyed her presence as she walked him down the corridor to his quarters.

“Night, honey.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek then opened the door of his quarters. He waved at her again as she smiled at him, then shut the door. He stripped off his shirt and tossed it in the chair, then sat on the bed and took off his shoes. “Ziggy, I want to know the minute that Sam wakes up. No 'ifs', 'ands' or 'buts'. Understood?”

Al lay back on the bed and yawned tiredly. Jules was right, he was tired, and hopefully this rest would help get rid of the little midget pounding in his head. Just the thought of the congo-man made him think of Sam and how he was going to feel in the morning. “Good luck to you, Sam, you’re gonna need it.”

Al looked around the room and tsked loudly at the mess. Beer bottles, chips, and other snackables were tossed around the room. He walked toward Sam who was still sitting on the floor. “So, which phase are we in? Spinning,